


40 Days in the Desert

by wildtrak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Army, Alternate Universe - War, Aziraphale is doing his best, Crowley is thwarted by his own wiles, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Isolation, Lost in the Desert, M/M, Royal Marine Aziraphale, War Correspondent Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildtrak/pseuds/wildtrak
Summary: Against his own better judgement, journalist Anthony Crowley takes a dangerous assignment as an embedded correspondent with a team of British Royal Marines on a tour of duty in an active combat zone.He's not expecting much when he meets Captain A.Z. Fell. Crowley hasn’t met many military types that he would voluntarily spend time with, but there is something strangely compelling about the soldier with bright blue eyes and a hidden past.Crowley is determined to unravel the mystery—until disaster strikes and his ride-along becomes a fight for survival.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Infiltration

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Good AUmens AU Event - My prompt was Alternative Universe - Iraq War. This is a Good Omens/Generation Kill fusion. Thanks to IsleofSolitude for the beta.

**Day 1**  
It’s hotter than Satan’s arse-crack here. And dusty. Not sure why anyone would volunteer for this. Regretting agreeing to Beez’s demands to give up drinking, and regretting all previous decisions that have led to this—what will be my inevitable demise from heatstroke, in the middle of the fucking desert.

“Oh dear, another red-head.” 

Crowley looks up as a figure looms over him. The soldier's body blocks the white-bright midday sun that has been starting to blind him, despite the polarised lenses in his glasses. Thus far his impression of Camp Condor is a general feeling of sweaty, dirty misery. And heat. So much heat. 

The man’s face is hard to distinguish, covered as it is by a thick layer of dust and a patterned head-scarf. It’s the same look shared by the half-dozen other British soldiers milling around the tent. The clamour of different accents is the only differentiating feature, as far as he’s been able to discern. 

Crowley can’t tell most of them apart yet—everyone is wearing the same beige uniforms, everyone is covered in dust and they’re all wearing the same unimpressed expression. But this one has an unusual posture and eyes that seem very blue against the dull neutral colours of his uniform. 

“Anthony Crowley, Rolling Stone,” Crowley smiles, risking a mouthful of dust to show his teeth. “I take it you’re my contact?”

“Indeed, Captain A.Z. Fell.” The soldier gestures in the direction of his troops who are all trying to look busy. “I take it you’ve already met some of my colleagues.” 

Crowley hasn’t, actually. They’ve all been staring at him with open disdain, but thus far none have approached him directly. Almost as if they were waiting for something. 

“Ezrafail Fell?” Crowley frowns down at the unintelligible scribble on his notepad where Beez has written the name of the commander of the team he’s supposed to be following.

“Not quite, never mind.” The Captain sighs with the exasperated weight of every person bestowed with an unusual name behind it. “My delightful associates here insist on calling me Angel, for reasons I’d rather not explore at the present juncture. Let’s just say they’re not exactly creative when it comes to codenames.” 

“Now I’m intrigued. Dare I ask?”

“Probably best not.” His smile has an impish quality that Crowley absolutely does not find charming.

“Angel it is,” Crowley grins, “And I go by Crowley, Anthony was my father’s name.” 

Crowley extends a hand, and the Captain accepts the handshake. His glove is rough against Crowley’s palm, and there is an impressive strength in his grip. 

“Am I to understand that you’re another correspondent here to cover the war effort?”

“That’s what it says on my vest,” Crowley turns around, his tactical vest emblazoned with bold white text with the word “Press” across the back.

Crowley has covered a lot of things in his career, but being embedded in an active warzone is not even in the top ten most dangerous situations. However, being a journalist isn’t always popular with the kinds of people who join the military, so he only injects a modicum of smart-arsery into his tone. 

The Captain raises an eyebrow. “I must say, your predecessor Ms Zuigiber was a bit of a trouble magnet. I trust we won’t have any such issues with you?” 

“No trouble, I promise.”

The Captain eyes him critically for a minute, before huffing out a haughty laugh.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Crowley has been waiting for an hour since the helicopter deposited him in the middle of the formless desert, and despite the numb backside, he is feeling magnanimous. “How about you show me around and I’ll overlook the aspersions you’re casting about my character.”

“Sounds like a fair exchange,” Captain Fell agrees, and Crowley feels a suspicious stab of anticipation. He hasn’t met many army types that he would voluntarily spend time with—they all tend to have the same over-compensatory bullishness and boring Queen-and-Country fervour that Crowley finds tiring. But there is an enticing glimmer, a thread that may be worth unraveling, in those bright blue eyes. 

Crowley scrambles to gather his belongings and follow when his new friend does an abrupt about-face and strides off towards the neighbouring tent. He stuffs his notepad and pen into his vest pocket, flipping it shut on his initial musings, and jogs through the heavy sand. Fell seems to glide over the surface like he’s on roller-skates, while Crowley can feel his hiking boots (newly purchased after his trusty old pair met their end on an active volcano) are starting to chafe. 

The remainder of the good Captain’s unit are even less diplomatic than their leader. Crowley has heard every slur, every unkind and bigoted sentiment that the worst of humanity can offer, yet he hears some frightening new combinations out of the mouths of Royal Marines young enough to be his children. 

Captain Fell dithers for a moment, frowning at the truly appalling commentary about the quality of the publication Crowley writes for as well as Crowley’s character and likely proclivities, but ultimately he says nothing. 

Crowley has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not the only recipient of such verbal assaults, just the most recent. When Fell meets his gaze, he just does a vaguely apologetic hand wave and a sad shrug but there is a flicker of something like empathy in his expression as well. 

Crowley wasn’t born yesterday, and the young soldiers around him positively reek of fear and insecurity. 

“Listen, kids. You are stuck with me for the next six weeks. So you can call me a gay hippie communist all you want, but you’ll find out soon enough that I am the wrong target for your bullshit.” 

There seems little point in disguising his leftness nor his affiliation with the rainbow community, even in this kind of hostile environment—undercover work requires more energy than he has left in reserve after Bolivia, and the rag he writes for is a dead giveaway anyway. 

“Whatever you say, guv.” The youngest Corporal smirks at him with a gap-toothed grin. “Here’s your bunk,” he says with a flourish, uncovering a pile of old sandbags hidden under a tarp. Crowley resolutely does not flinch when half a dozen rats scurry out from their hiding places. 

“Terrific,” he says, and tosses his rucksack down on top. 

Crowley sits down on the nearest bag, and doesn’t give them the satisfaction of complaint. Unappealing though the concept feels, he will have to gain their trust if he’s going to be able to a.) write the story he’s been sent here to write, and b.) not get his head blown off in the meantime. 

Fortunately, Crowley has literally written the book on hardcore army pranking [1], so he’s not worried. They’ll warm up to him soon enough. By the end of his six week tour, they’ll be eating out of his hand, he’s sure of it. 

He sleeps with his sunglasses on and one eye open, just in case.

* * *

  1. Joke books are much more lucrative than Pulitzer-winning investigations, and also much easier to do from the comfort of your own living room. A bit less prestigious though. [back]




	2. Coup de main

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coup de main | a swift pre-emptive strike.

**Day 2**  
Probably shouldn’t be admitting to anything on paper where one of my new mates can find it... But there was a certain majesty in how the coffee pot exploded just as Corporal Samael bent down to smell the sweet aroma of Arabica I so thoughtfully donated to him. The destruction was a bit more extensive than I intended, and it occurs to me now that I will also be stuck drinking instant, but still think it was worth it. It’s only been 24 hours and they’re getting frustrated already, fucking amateurs. Now I have a dedicated shadow, Sergeant Jophiel (or Toffee Joffee as the others have taken to calling him on the strength of my suggestion), who is desperate to catch me in the act. The saga continues...

“Mr Crowley, a word.” Captain Fell corners him in the chow queue later that morning with a weary glare. He pulls Crowley aside into one of the smaller rooms in the tent maze that links the common areas. 

“What’s on your mind, Angel?” Crowley gives him a benign smile. Fell looks stressed, though that seems to be a fairly constant state based on Crowley’s initial observations. He can hardly blame the man. Being responsible for a unit comprised entirely of juvenile bloodthirsty wankers would send anyone prematurely grey. 

“I can’t believe I’m asking _you_ this, but the others aren’t talking even after I ordered them to. Would you care to tell me how Corporal Samael came to injure his face? I need to explain to my superiors why one of my Royal Marines is no longer fit for duty.”

Crowley can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him. 

“Isn’t that against the rules around here? I thought the junior officers had to kiss their senior officer’s arse at the end of every sentence?”

Fell’s face looks simultaneously agonised and self-loathing at that, and Crowley almost feels bad.

“Broadly speaking, yes,” the Captain sighs. “But my teammates aren't very interested in doing as I ask, and I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to how to remedy the situation.”

“Can’t you just write them up or something?” Crowley frowns.

Captain Fell paces for a moment, short strides and smart turns in the small space available. His shoulders are locked tight, and Crowley can see the wobble of a tic in his jaw when he pauses for a second as if to say something.

“Captain?” Crowley prods gently. 

“Is this… can we… can we do this off the record?” 

“If you like.”

Fell lets out a long breath, and slumps down on a storage box, flopping his head forward in his hands. Crowley crouches down next to him, taking his sunglasses off to try and make encouraging eye contact. The tempting scent of something potentially scandalous has piqued his professional interest—he waits for the secrets to spill.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things… and I suppose I should start at the beginning.” Fell extracts a piece of crumpled paper from one of the multitude of hidden pockets in his uniform and hands it to Crowley. 

It’s an official demotion letter, addressed to Maj. A.Z. Fell. Crowley scans it quickly, noting the reason given as equipment theft and conduct unbecoming of an officer, but his gaze is drawn to the bottom of the page.

Finally, a first name.

_Aziraphale._

_Suits you,_ he thinks. 

Crowley smiles hopelessly at the swooping loops in the acknowledgement signature, and when he looks up, the Captain is glaring at him.

“I did it, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says mulishly, pointing at the charges on the page. “And if you’re going to use this to make my life more of a misery—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts, testing the name out.

“Yes? Oh.” It’s almost impossible to see in the dim light of the tent, but Crowley watches Aziraphale’s cheeks go slightly pink.

“Nice name.”

“Acceptable pronunciation. At least, better than your first attempt.”

Crowley grins, and then is disgusted with himself for how such a watered-down compliment makes him feel so warm all of a sudden. 

The moment stretches, until the crash of someone next door dropping a bain-marie full of (no doubt) congealed oatmeal startles them both. 

Crowley stands, and moves back to a safer distance.

“So you have a problem to solve,” he says quickly, to usher away the awkwardness. “That lot out there know you’re on the outs with your superiors and they’re using it to get away with bloody murder.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Well, the way I see it, you’ve got a bit of a PR issue. But I think with a bit of creative thinking, we can turn it around.” Crowley pauses for dramatic effect. “This platoon isn’t going down over a coffee-maker, not on my watch!”

Aziraphale is still for a long moment, but nods decisively.

“All right, I’m listening.”

Crowley flips open his notepad and goes to work.

* * *

“Corporal Malakai was very fast to secure the renegade equipment, and thanks to Sergeant Jophiel’s quick thinking and readiness to provide first aid to his colleague, Corporal Samael suffered only minor injuries,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley cheers internally. 

Perfect delivery, just like they practiced. 

“I see.” The stern carrot-haired woman in fatigues that Crowley was only briefly introduced to stares Aziraphale down with a flinty glare. “In that case, you might consider writing your men up for a commendation, Captain Fell.” 

“Indeed!” Aziraphale gives her an awkward thumbs up. 

She turns around and Crowley feels the full force of that glare hit him between the eyes. There is a definite air of unimpressed school teacher about her that Crowley tries not to shrink back from, lest she sense any weakness.

“Mr Crowley, while you are not a member of the armed forces, while you are here you will abide by our rules. Make sure you’re using regulation coffee next time.” 

“Of course marm!” 

Sargent Jophiel, Corporal Malakai and Corporal Samael (notwithstanding a bandaged face) break out into wide smiles, and jostle Crowley good-naturedly as the Lieutenant Colonel dismisses them. 

Crowley lets the wave of success carry him all the way back to their tent. He catches Aziraphale smiling so wide it’s nearly breaking his face, and damn him if it isn’t an attractive look. 

Aziraphale even does a funny sort of wiggle as he holds the flap of the tent open for Crowley to enter. Crowley will not be charmed. He will not.

“Now, let that be a lesson to all of you not to be messing about,” Aziraphale says once they’re all inside, and the troops all reply with a chorus of more sincere “yes sir’s” than Crowley has heard thus far. 

No sarcasm this time that he can detect. 

“All right then, marines, fall out.” 

The rest of the group disperses, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale in peace at the back of the tent. Aziraphale starts to gather up his equipment from the storage locker at the foot of his bunk.

“What did I tell you, Angel. Worked like a charm.” Crowley reclines in a triumphant sprawl against the centre tent pole. 

“Yes I suppose it did. Michael is a bit of a stickler for procedure, but I think we managed to avoid anything unfortunate.” Aziraphale shakes out his headscarf and wraps it around his neck. “Nevertheless, I shan’t be making a habit of it.” 

“Perish the thought,” Crowley agrees, and gives him a saucy wink over the rim of his sunglasses. Aziraphale responds with a tense and quelling head shake— _Access denied_ , Crowley thinks, and feels a sudden desire to sulk about it. The flash of coldness on Aziraphale’s face is gone just as quickly as it came.

“Care to join me on my patrol?” Aziraphale dons his helmet and clips his SA80 into the support strap, tone airy and light as though nothing untoward has happened. 

“Be nice to see the sights I suppose.”

“Here, you’ll need this—” Aziraphale hands him his spare headscarf. “—looks like there is a storm brewing to the South. I don’t want you to get caught out. Sand tastes positively awful.” 

Crowley takes it and wraps it around his face in a full cover shemagh with practiced ease, leaving no skin visible and only a small gap to accommodate his glasses. The material has a faint scent of cologne, but is otherwise clean and soft. 

He doesn’t tell Aziraphale that he already has his own scarf stuffed somewhere in his rucksack. He’s not one to turn down a gift.

“What do you think, Angel?”

Aziraphale laughs, bright and cheery again, as Crowley marches up and down the center of the tent like it’s a runway. Making Aziraphale laugh is moving further and further up his priority list the more time they spend together, and Crowley tries not to think too hard about that.

“Well, at least that’s one less thing for me to worry about.”

“Did a story a few years back on how the Bedouin communities in North Africa were coping with the changing climate. They made sure I knew how to tie a proper shemagh before I went home. Glad it’s finally coming in handy again.”

“Well, I’m pleased to see you haven’t lost your touch.” Aziraphale smiles, and hands him a canteen of water. “Oh and we must stop by the latrines. Corporal Malakai mentioned that there was some kind of strange malfunction when he was in there this morning. Something tells me they’ll need your expertise to fix the problem.”

“Oh come on, you’re not serious, Angel? Angel!”

Aziraphale ignores him and Crowley is forced to run to catch up, jogging reluctantly out into the midday sun. 


End file.
